The Crypt
by GlassHawk
Summary: The Dragonborn explores an old Nordic burial ground. But there's far more than meets the eye...


I crouch. I can hear them, just up ahead.

Even in the mouth of the cave, they're waiting for me. The spiders. The giant, menacing spiders. Frostbite Spiders, as they're called by the locals, and they're every bit as deadly as the affliction they're named after. But at least frostbite doesn't spit _poison_ at you.

Still, they have no idea I'm here. Good. I'll make sure they never find out.

I raise my gloved hand and open my fist. A small flame jumps out just above my palm, and suspends itself in place. I do the same with my other hand, and an identical flame appears. It doesn't melt the gold ring on my finger, though; no, the ring only makes the fire _stronger._

I take a few steps to the right, backed as far against the wall as I could. Neither spider has seen me; they continue to aimlessly clomp around, waiting for prey to make itself known. If they knew I was here, I'd be that prey.

I close my fists, one at a time. The flames in my hand compress, and I feel the energy course through my hands. It only takes a second before the attack is ready. I aim.

I throw my hands forward, opening my fists. Two great balls of fire leap from my palms, streaking through the air. The spiders turn to look.

It's already too late. The flames are the last thing they see.

With both spiders dead, I stand. No point in sneaking when no one's around. Just to be sure, I raise my hands once more and shake my left. The fire swaps for a purplish mist, a personal favorite spell of mine. Detect Life.

I raise my hand. A dull tint, barely noticeable but very much real fills the room. I know what happens well from experience: if anyone is nearby, my spell will detect them, even through walls. A blue glow means neutral.

Red means enemy.

Thankfully, I get the best outcome possible: nothing. I lower my hand and dispel the magic; why waste excess energy? Though no one—be it friend or foe—is _immediately_ around, they could always turn up later. And besides, some of the more powerful foes are skilled at evasion...

I march onwards. My heavy Thalmor boots—enchanted, of course—clomp along the damp dirt and stir up noise, but I don't bother with a Muffle spell. I'll be fine, and as I said earlier, no use in spending more energy than I need to.

As I make my way through the halls of the Nordic crypt, I glance around the walls. Rows upon rows of body sized nooks line them from ceiling to floor, with many of the withered, graying corpses left in the open. A few are even propped up in special alcoves, arms crossed and weapons at their sides.

I sneer. The Nords have _interesting_ burial customs, to say the least, but they seem lazy. Why not leave them in proper mausoleums, like the Mer? Why risk such easy grave robbery, from even the simplest of thieves? It would take little effort for one to simply stroll in, find all the gold and jewelry scattered about, and walk right out pockets full.

But I, of course, am no basic thief. I'm here for something... more.

I take a few more steps into the room. I've come to an intersection: the hall behind me leads back to the cave entrance, the hall ahead to a great metal door. To the left and right, dead ends. Still, I notice treasure chests, buried deep in the dirt and rubble; I shrug to myself. What would the harm be in taking a peek? Surely these dead won't miss it.

But as I turn my back, I hear a low growl. Guttural. I strain to see behind, from the corner of my eye.

To my horror, I discover the sound came from... a corpse. A _walking_ corpse. They're moving! What's more, more are rising from their resting places, one at a time! Their eyes glow a piercing blue, and ancient iron & steel weapons sit entrenched in their fists.

I raise my hands, and bring the small flames to light once more. Now it makes sense; these dead must be tomb guardians, to destroy the living who dare disturb their slumber. Just as I have done.

But if it's a fight they want, it's a fight they'll get.

I close my hand into a fist. I quickly shape the magicka into a fireball, and I cast it upon the nearest undead, just to my left. He drops with one strike, but two quickly take his place.

I inwardly grunt. My eyes quickly scan the area for an opening, a space to slip through and allow me more room to fire; I see none. Without thinking, I charge another fireball and throw aimlessly, but it luckily collides with a walking corpse in the far back. To my surprise, this one remains standing. It seems some of these undead are more powerful than others, and by extension more resilient.

I take several steps back, but I quickly bump my back against the wall. Noticing this, several of these undead sheathe their swords, and more follow. For a brief moment, I want to believe they're surrendering, but that notion is quickly dashed as they reach behind them, one at a time. Bows! And arrows! They're not planning to stab me to death, they're planning to _shoot_ me!

In a panic, I shoot several more fireballs. They all connect with separate targets, and a few of them drop as the first did, but still four remain by the end. My magicka pool has been depleted...

I realize now there's only one option. I take in a great gulp of breath, just as the remaining undead prepare to fire their bows.

"FUS RO DAH!"

The corpses all fly backwards, their loaded arrows falling harmlessly from their bows. They collide with the back wall, and slowly stagger to their feet. It takes them a few seconds.

And that's all I need.

With a newly replenished magicka pool—an enchanted circlet can do that to an elf—I dual cast with both my hands my fireballs. I shoot three in succession, all aimed not at an undead in particular, but the middle.

My plan works. The fireballs strike the gaps between them, and send explosions side-to-side. The undead fly in every direction, the blue glow fading from their eyes forever.

Hopefully.

With the enemies defeated, I lower my hands. Freshly out of combat, my magicka pool is fast regenerating, and I'm well aware I'll need it. This was just the beginning, I can feel it.

I abandon the treasure chests and move on. I come upon the great metal door, and push forward; it swings open with a rusty squeak. I step inside the next room, and shut it behind me.

At a glance, I see I've come across a long hallway. Mounted torches line the walls and give light, illuminating what appears to be rows of black containers, on both sides. At the end of the hall is a door, with three rings and a disk in the center. What these could be, I can't imagine.

I begin to enter the hallway. I only takes a few steps, however, before I hear a popping sound, to my left. Then another. And another.

I quickly turn to look. My eyes widen at the sight; yet another undead is emerging from the nearest container. A coffin. And the repeated sounds assuredly mean more are on the way.

With a frown, I curse myself for my foolishness. I should've _known_ these were coffins, this is a crypt! And if history was any indication, then a crypt means a tomb crawling with undead guardians. If I had just set that Muffle spell earlier, perhaps they wouldn't have heard me...

Nevertheless, it's no time to dwell on the past. I raise my hands once more.

I begin to charge my fireball yet again. But just before I can fire, an arrow, shot from an undead archer at the far end of the hall, flies through the air and lodges in my shoulder. I cry out in pain, but cast the spell anyway: the fireball flies through the air, and hits... nothing.

I hold my breath in terror. These undead, they seem even _stronger_ than the previous crop, and I had my hands full then. And my Fus Ro Dah shout had yet to recharge, rendering me unable to stagger them. And my lack of armor in favor of mage robes certainly didn't help.

I desperately charge another fireball, stepping to the side as I do so. An arrow, presumably from the same archer, splits right through where I'd been standing just a moment ago, and I know more are on the way. I can't stay still for long; staying mobile is key.

Just ahead, my attention is ripped from the archer as a sword wielding undead charges for me. I throw my fireball at it, and score a direct hit to the stomach. But to my dismay, he stays fast on his feet, and continues his charge. He doesn't even look injured _._

I open the metal door behind me. I run out of the hallway and back to the battleground with the spiders, the undead fast on my heels. I charge another fireball midway, and turn to fire once again.

And that's when I see it.

An arrow, brilliantly aimed with precision, tears through the open air. The sharpened metal tip pierces my circlet's gem, forehead, and skull, and lodges into my brain. My corpse flies back against the wall in an instant, and my final sight is of another arrow, ripping into my lungs and filling them with blood.

I have been killed.

* * *

I see... a fog.

It is a slow rolling fog, visible only against the black canvas behind. Still, it is not alone; in the top right corner, my level and a progress bar, filled about halfway. To the left, a life size model of a Breton, dressed in basic mage robes and wielding a staff. And in the bottom right corner, text:

 _Breton blood grants a 50% resistance to magic. Bretons can use Dragonskin to absorb magicka from hostile spells, for a short time._

... Most interesting. It's a shame I am a High Elf, not a Breton.

I can't wait for this loading screen to end.


End file.
